To Owe You Everything
by Michelle
Summary: Scully's thoughts during Mulder's disappearance


TITLE: To Owe You Everything (PG-13)  
AUTHOR: Mickey  
E-MAIL : gnrgirl@hotmail.com   
DISTRIBUTION: Ephemeral, Gossamer; OK.   
Also at my site (http://www.geocities.com/michellestandish).   
Everyone else - bag it, tag it, tell me where it is (you know the drill).   
SPOILER: Through Season 7   
RATING: PG-13   
CLASSIFICATION: Vignette   
KEYWORDS: Implied MSR  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I've finally slept a few hours, and this piece   
reflects my newly refreshed mood. It's a little dark, I suppose, but  
happy in its own right.  
  
SUMMARY : Scully thinks about things sometime during the end of   
Season Seven and the start of Season Eight.  
  
XXXXXXX  
  
There are some things you hang onto, no matter how much they hurt.   
  
Like the last time you saw your grandfather and the harsh words you   
exchanged. Or the time you were stood up at your junior prom. Or   
when you found an injured bird in the woods, and it died in your old   
shoebox. The things you hang onto, from the simplest nonsensical to   
the most tradgic, are the things that shape your lives. They define   
you, your passions, your regrets, your every action. They are as   
inescapable as they are painful. And despite the pain, no matter how   
much it may seem, deep down inside you cling to them like a greedy   
child after the pinata bursts. Pain creates hope for better times. Pain   
gives you reason to go on. Pain is life. Life is pain. The two words   
are intrinsic to each others meaning; they are as inseparable as they   
are identical. You can't have life without pain.  
  
My biggest pain was, for the longest time, the death of my father. I   
had a graced childhood, no real pain. My childhood was as close to   
the typical Cleaver family as possible for a military family. I was loved   
by my parents, I never outstepped the bounds of their rules. My older   
brother teased me, my sister doted on me, and I had a little brother to   
dress up and play with. I didn't know my father that well, and perhaps   
that was for the best. He was a harsh man, his inborn gentleness   
toughened by his lifelong service to the American Armed Forces. No,   
perhaps harsh is too strong a word to singly define the man that sired   
me. He was distant, yes. He was unfazable in his principals, and ruled   
our home with a steady hand. But these same qualities that made my   
friends fear him, were the ones that made me love him.  
  
When Bill, my older brother, slipped a toad beneath my sheets, my   
father made him apologize to me and sent him to bed without supper.   
(I have since realized that Bill was just trying to get Father to pay   
attention to him) My father didn't play favorites. The time I dumped   
bugs in Bill's shampoo, I recieved the same punishment as my brother   
did before me; no changes, no lax in the rules for a girl. And I loved   
him for it. Not at the time, of course, but once I grew up, I realized   
everything he did for me.   
  
When he died, a part of me died. The part that I reserved for dear   
old Ahab was one of the larger sections of my heart, and his loss   
was felt deeply within me.   
  
And when my grief was shed, I looked through the haze to see the   
unflinching gaze of my mother, ever understanding, ever loving. Calm   
and collected, she kept her grief from us as much as she could, and let   
us, her "babies", lean on her shoulder.   
  
When my sister died, from a bullet meant for me, Mom was there again,   
but this time I had someone else to help me through my woe, my best   
friend. He let me cry, let me hit him, let me blame him for her death and   
never said a word in his defense, as much as he should have. He was   
there for me then, as he was there for me whenever I needed it. He was   
my strong point, my touchstone, my rock, whatever you want to call it.   
He was simply there, and it was more than I ever expected.  
  
I came to depend on him and his crackpot take to every case. I would   
relish the first few minutes of every case. When he tossed a thin   
manilla folder at me, ordering me silently to glance at the photos nearly   
always contained within. When he asked me what I thought   
happened, with that little smirk on his perfect lips, all the while keeping   
back that one final fact, that last clue, to spring on me once I'd made   
the expected conclusion. And then he would tell me, eyes aflame with   
the passion I knew he felt about his work and could only hoped he felt   
about me. Spilling forth from his mouth that theory would come, the   
one I braced myself for, the one I would laughingly tease him about,   
the one I, eventually, came to accept as the truth. I even came to intuit   
what his latest hypothesis would be. Hell, I gave him those theories on   
occasion.   
  
Not that I would ever admit to him that I agreed with him. My   
acceptance of his ideas came grudgingly, no matter how much faith I   
put in them. It was pure habit, to be honest. I felt I had to keep trying   
to disprove him to keep him motivated, keep him interested.   
  
Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with him. When I first met him,   
perhaps? No, not then. Though the glasses perched upon his nose,   
and said nose buried admidst slides did more than a little for the initial   
attraction I felt. Was it when he told me about his sister, unshed tears   
glistening in his eyes? No, not then. Though the sight further   
endeared me to him. Was it when he held me in the cancer ward? No,   
not then. I just fell in love with him, everything about him. His quirks,   
his fetishes . . . him.  
  
How can I explain it so you would understand? How can I explain the   
connection we have? I don't think words can accurately describe what   
exists between us. It just is. I love him, and miraculously, remarkably,   
he loves me back.   
  
Or should I say loved?   
  
I swipe a tear from my cheek, its wetness creating a glistening path   
along the curve of my cheek, the cheek he would caress so   
tenderly . . .   
  
Deep breath.  
  
It's just too hard to think of this man in the past tense. It can't be real,   
it couldn't have happened. He was too vital to die like this. There is too   
much left for him to discover. There are too many things left here on   
earth for him to leave it forever. There are too many people that need   
him. The Gunmen need him to give them "theories stanger than ours".   
Skinner needs him so he can get his ass kicked once in a while. The   
world needed him to find the truth. I needed him to continue living.   
And my child . . . my child needs its father.  
  
But all we have left are memories. Bittersweet moments in time that slip   
between our fingers without impunity. I grasp at these memories with   
every bit of willpower that I retain. And still, those memories are   
fading. I can't remember the exact timber of his voice; I have to listen   
the tape from his answering machine to recall the inflection of his   
voice. I can't remember what it feels like to have him hold my body   
close to his in the dead of the night. I can't remember the last thing   
he said to me. I can't remember his face.  
  
His face. The same image that kept me up for hours on end is slowly   
being irradicated from my mind. And I can't stop it, no matter how   
hard I try.  
  
Still, there is one memory that remains. One moment, forever etched   
into my memory, that I can't forget, even though it troubles me to   
brood on it.   
  
Our last time together, nearly eight months ago, on that bed in   
Oregon. We didn't even . . . we simply slept, too emotionally and   
physically fatigued for more than the sweet respite sleep lent us. I   
remember waking up early in the morning, his arm wrapped firm across   
my waist. His hand, and this is the part that causes me to sob   
incessantly at night, his palm was splayed against my stomach, fingers   
unconciously caressing my adbomen. I can see myself in my mind,   
smiling down on that hand, adding my own hand to his, dragging   
myself closer to him and falling back asleep.  
  
It was the closest he would ever come to his child.  
  
And no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want that single   
memory to be blotted from my mind, it persists in maiming my   
thoughts. And yet, I'm glad I have that to keep me warm at night.   
  
I shall need it on the many, many cold nights I have ahead.   
  



End file.
